Chapter 26
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Nate knew something was wrong when the green dots disappeared into the Callahan tunnel for the second time in half an hour. The first time it happened they were very close, Sophie managed to keep them only five minutes behind the dot – but then the dot entered the Logan Airport. Hardison had nine different theories about what Eliot might do at the airport, but before they found a place to stop, the dot left and returned to the city.
So they went after it, again.
Sophie was driving through the dense traffic keeping their distance to less than five minutes, and Hardison specially marked every point where the dot stopped. It was never more than a minute, it seemed that Eliot was just driving up and down the town, doing absolutely nothing.
But then, he entered that damn tunnel again, and Nate buried his face in his hand, with an exasperated sigh. "Hardison," he said. "I need you to check something… will you please draw the route he's made so far, in a line, and not just dots?"
"Just a sec." Hardison quickly typed something, and a green line spread all over the map, like a giant, multi-rayed star.
"Now, take away the blank map, and put something touristic on it… restaurants, hotels, motels, that sort of things."
"I have no idea what…" Hardison did it while he was speaking, and the map blinked, cutting off his words. "Wow, this is interesting." He pointed to the end of three different rays. "Three hotels on the ends of the points, after them he turned back… these are also points where he stopped for a minute…." his voice trailed off and he cursed under his breath. "He sent us after a fucking taxi!"
"Yep. The usual route… airport, then hotels. Busy night, streets are full. We have to find the exact place where he planted Parker's earbud in that cab, and dismiss everything after that point."
"I have the exact time when he entered the airport the last time, I'll find it on the cameras, and we'll have the cab company. But it will take some time, there'll be many of them at the same time, we'll have to call everyone. Gimme a few minutes."
"What now?" Sophie asked from the front seat. "Where am I supposed to drive?"
"Just continue with this route for now. Hardison, give me the last recorded location the Toyota before-" the ringing of his phone cut him off. "Yeah, Patrick, speak." He listened for some time. "Okay, Patrick, thank you. Hardison, scratch that, the last known location was in Columbus avenue. He-"
"Burned it?" Parker asked.
"How-"
"Police channels – it was just a short call, the code for a traffic accident, a burning car, Columbus avenue – they reported no victims and nothing connected to weapons, so it didn't sound important. Sophie is driving, you two have screens to look at, and I can only listen to what's happening."
"You know all the police codes?"
"Of course I do, since I was ten."
"Okay, continue, concentrate on that, and warn us if anything sounds suspicious. Hardison, give her some headphones so she can listen to the police channel. It will be useful if you give her 911 calls to monitor as well. Sophie, take us to that address. I'll start to call taxi companies and find that driver."
"Why?"
"I want to talk to him and see if he remembers Eliot and what he looked like. We can easily search for a man in a black suit, while he walks around in a yellow T-shirt."
"Tonight is too cold for-" Hardison stopped and rubbed his eyes. "Yeah, right, I know what you mean. Never mind."
Nate looked at him better. "And how many hours, exactly, did you sleep last night?"
Hardison looked guilty for a second. "I had set the alarm to wake me at 4 a.m. I was busy."
"With what? We were all sleeping, the cops were in Eliot's corridor around that dead guy-"
"With throwing up, okay?" Hardison snarled. "And I was studying something in the hospital security footage, to save time later. It will be important only if everything goes all right, not now. Just… let it go."
"We'll stop somewhere to get coffee," Nate sighed, deciding not to press him. He just wondered what would happen when all of them started to reveal everything they'd hid from each other. Would it be a flood or an explosion?
Whatever. Lucille would survive it.
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Great. The Commander, finally, lost all his nerves too, irritated by the Hitter whose constant urging to hurry everything up annoyed everyone. It wasn't easy to drive with one hand and a fight going on in his head, hell, it wasn't easy to drive at all, with the street that was wriggling, and traffic lights becoming all pink at the same time, right in the moment when he needed to decide if he should stop on the red light or continue. He was driving the Hummer slowly, under the speed limits, knowing he would be in trouble if cops stopped him and took just one look at his eyes.
"Stop talking, you idiots," Eliot said checking the GPS; damn thing was pink as well. His interfering with their quarrel just made the Retrieval Specialist engage and take the Hitter's side, and Eliot hit the brakes at the last moment, avoiding the truck that stopped on the crossing. He had a three second delay in every reaction, and the chatter in his head distracted him even more. The curse the Commander hissed was completely new, he had never heard it before, and that pushed him into decently worried thinking about the crazy group in his head. His inner voices were collecting new curses without him knowing it, Jesus, soon they'd start to teach him who knows what.
He was surprised with his driving skills, it went easier than walking. As long as he was able to stop the mad reactions to the other driver's moves in the traffic – all of their moves, and their mere presence on the road – he would be able to drive wherever he wanted. At least he was sitting and that could be considered almost like resting. The main problem with this overdose was that it couldn't annul his general weakness, just the pain. He could think he could do anything, and his brain was trying to convince him of that very stubbornly, but because of the blood loss he was on the constant verge of passing out. Monitoring that, and figuring out his true condition and abilities under the influence of the drugs would be constant struggle. If he forgot for just one second that he was barely standing, deceived by the false signals from his drugged brain, and overdid even the smallest move or reaction, he would go down hard.
"There is one thing, though, that's confusing me," he said, turning his head to the passenger seat, slowly, trying not to stir up the sleeping nausea, to the crumpled man who was sitting with his back almost leaning on the door. "You're supposed to be the toughest of Villacorta's little soldiers, aren't you, Alejandro?"
The pale face, never leaving his every move, went into a gray shadow when he spoke and looked at him. It was a shame to see such a bad guy turned into heap of shaking limbs, and Villacorta's first lieutenant was the bad guy. According to Hardison's files, this man was in charge of all the minor gangs Chileans swallowed and annexed in Boston; he also dealt with the threats from their competition, clearing the way for the Chileans to grow and spread out even more. He wasn't just sending others to do the dirty jobs, he led the way, never afraid of death and shooting. But he was afraid now.
Eliot had done nothing, he really had done nothing to him. He just politely asked him to accompany him on the ride. He was smiling the entire time, for Christ's sake!
Eliot smiled again, just to test a theory, and the man made a low, whimpering sound. The Hitter chuckled with a sinister grin. Yep, he should know it was all his fault, he scared him. He let him to see all the craziness combined from those three days, and all the madness that was about to be unleashed.
"I said, stop talking," he growled, and Alejandro froze. "Not you! I was not talking to you. Just… shut up, all of you, damn it!" The Hitter rolled his eyes, The Specialist carefully tried to tell him what effect his words had on the man, and the Commander just facepalmed. Eliot sighed and closed his eyes for a second, hoping that darkness would quiet them all, like parrots in a cage when someone covered them with a blanket.
It didn't work. He found himself smiling at Alejandro again, without knowing he was doing it – the sneaky Hitter had silently taken over, in that moment of darkness.
Rule number one: Don't let the Hitter to feed on the darkness.
Okay, that was disturbing. He restrained himself from looking in the rear mirror to see what was wrong with his smile; he was kind, calm, polite, relaxed, and he couldn't figure out why those feelings weren't transferred to his passenger. He needed him for some time, alive and functioning, and upsetting him further wasn't a good idea, but he couldn't stop smiling.
"If I knew that story about the original Florence recipes would upset you this much, I would have kept my mouth shut. You should've told me you're not interested, ya' know?"
Alejandro's face went green, and his eyes became even more desperate. Eliot eyed him, knowing that desperation led to irrational behavior; seriously? - but he was far away from any ideas about attacking him or something. Maybe it was because the suspicion he planted in Villacorta's mind last night took root, confirmed further by the Lady Killer's report from this evening; if Villacorta's men believed he wasn't shot at all, they would think twice about attacking him.
The Hitter wasn't satisfied with that, he had spent half an hour explaining how stupid it was to make an opponent try harder to knock you down, but in the end, he had to agree with the Commander: deceiving the enemy was the key to victory. Eliot couldn't make himself weaker than he was, but he could do opposite, and confuse them on several levels. Any decision based on the wrong info was useful for them. For him, he corrected himself.
Alejandro crumpled even more, keeping the distance. Whether he thought Eliot was in full health, or not, that was a strange behavior; the madman's eyes shouldn't have scared him that much. Hell, as far as he could tell, maybe that guy wasn't even there, maybe he was talking to a monster dressed in Armani, and the real owner of the Hummer was left behind in that parking lot in seven pieces. Why seven?
He slowly reached with his right hand – sudden movements, no matter that he couldn't feel the pain, were strictly forbidden - and pinched the man's cheek.
"Ha. Meat. You are real." He was satisfied, which led to more smiling, more smiling led to more whimpering noises from his new friend, which made the hitter happy and smiling, and it was a vicious circle he didn't know how to break. He tried to make a comfortable and relaxed atmosphere, but it seemed the guy would be happier if he put him in the trunk. Cargo space, he corrected himself; Hummers didn't have trunks. Nope, no enough room for him.
Well, they were almost there.
"You know what's bothering me the most about this night?" he sighed, worried again. "I forgot to tell Betsy to take care of George. He might die."
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"The problem with the bulletproof windshields, and armored cars is, as you guessed already, that you can't escape once you're locked in it," Eliot said to his passenger when he stopped the Hummer.
"If you want to kill me, why are you driving me around?" Those were the first words Alejandro said.
"I have no intention to kill you. If you are clever and lucky, and just smile and keep quiet, you might live. Your chances are not great, though, I won't lie to you… but it's possible. But, do anything except smile, and I'll kill you without a second thought."
Eliot put all Alejandro's useful things in his pockets – one more phone, one more gun, cash, IDs - in hour or two he'd need a damn bag just for the phones – checked the vehicle for spare keys, climbed out and locked his prisoner in the armored fortress on wheels. "Over protection is a bitch," he murmured checking the shadows in the street. Maybe he shouldn't say that, because the Commander used the opportunity and went into a litany about over protection, which raised the Hitter on his back legs. Yeah, strange. Those two obviously had many unsolved issues, Eliot thought while checking his phones. Again. Every damn time he had to use one of the phones, he had to repeat to himself which one was for what and why, unable to remember. He picked the silver one, and turned it on. This time, he let the Hitter smile as much as he wanted.
He stepped onto the street towards his target, and almost instantly realized the mistake – he did it with his usual, quick steps. Only three were enough to send him staggering, and black dots, no, gray dots in this darkness, covered everything before his eyes. He barely managed to reach some kind of wall, and lean on it to rest and wait for his vision to clear. He had been sitting too long, and moved too fast, and his heart couldn't send already the too little blood everywhere that was needed. Damn buzzing.
Rule number two: do not listen when the morphine starts to whisper about invincibility.
He observed a lit sign on the door from the distance, waited a few more minutes, and went around the building, slowly, carefully, listening to his breathing and heartbeat. It should tell him how he was doing, not the stupid brain who was trying to push him into running quickly.
When he was there the last time, his scanning of the surroundings was superficial, but now he needed to find all the escape routes, back entrances, and most of all, the number of back rooms. And windows, he shouldn't forget the windows, just in case, though he couldn't imagine jumping from any. He was very satisfied when he succeeded in keeping that thought, without his drugged brain going into persuasion. His own brain was trying to kill him, apparently.
And if he let it take over, it would succeed. No jumping from the windows. Rule number two should constantly be in force.
The dirty back street, filled with trash and boxes, was completely dark, but Eliot had to walk through it, to see any hidden obstacles in his way. Running from here, no, brain, slow retreat, no running, would be dangerous enough even without falling.
The pale shadows chose that moment to return and gather at the edges of his vision, but their whispers, fortunately, were quieter than the music that was coming through the back door. Anyway, he knew what they would tell him. He decided to call them zombies, although they were too normal for that; it was easier to think of them as monsters, and not what they really were. He really missed the butterflies.
More than ten minutes had passed while he was investigating the surroundings, and it was time to speed things up a little. This time, timing was out of his control, and he had to rely on pure luck.
He went back to the front street, checked the pulse that was speeding, but not alarmingly, and stopped himself in front of the door of Marco's Tavern.
Mexican Cartel Inc. Headquarters.
Just three weeks had passed since Hardison knocked down the same bouncer that was now looking at him, and Eliot thought about this man's bad luck. This night was not the night to work here again, definitely.
He stopped directly in front of him, and let the Hitter smile. "I shall say this only once," he said slowly. "If you want to live, go home. Now. And never come back." Then, he waited, saying no more.
The guy stared at him for five seconds. On sixth second he turned around and went down the street.
Good.
Eliot checked the time again, took the gun from his belt, and went in. He took just one step inside and looked around. The bar was crowded, which wasn't good. Damn weekend. He needed the clear scene, not a bar full of innocent bystanders. He shot one bullet into the ceiling, stopping all conversation immediately, and waved the gun to the waiters behind the desk.
"All guests, out!" he didn't need to shout, every word was clear in the silence. "At the back door. Now!" Pointing the gun at the tables hastened their exit a little. "All the staff, too. The bar is closed for tonight. Go home!"
The bartenders and waiters waited for the sign from the group that was still sitting, and after one of them nodded, they too went after the guests, leaving the bar. Eliot counted the rest that stayed still, three big tables were occupied, and four more men at the bar. Nineteen left.
"Now, we shall talk," Eliot said and put away his gun. "You owe me a few answers."
"What is the question?" a calm voice asked, from the third table. They were all calm.
"I wanna know, Mexicans, why you are trying to kill me," he drawled.
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His monologue about traditional Florence cuisine had been practice and a test. He had to be sure about every word he said from now on, because one wrong word, or even a gesture, could ruin everything. Alejandro endured it stoically, he even tried to look interested, so that meant his speech made sense. Alejandro lost it only when the voices took over and started to argue, so Eliot had to speak with them and abandon his recipes.
He didn't have the main role in this play that was about to begin, he was merely a prompter – but those words he would whisper to the main characters could change the script entirely. What a joy.
He watched the nineteen Mexicans, trying to recognize if any of the faces belonged to the group that he had fought the last time; two of them, both at the table with the one who spoke, but he couldn't be sure. No, three, he changed his mind when one man who was sitting at the bar spoke.
"This one came with that dirty cop who put Cortez in jail," the man said. "If we were not trying to kill him before, we should think of it now."
"This one," Eliot repeated slowly, "was just released from custody today, because he was arrested with your Cortez that night. My partner is still behind bars, they had much more on his head. Maybe I should consider killing you all, for a change? Shut up. Who is here in charge now?"
"I am," a young man from the third table nodded. "Cortez's time is over."
Thank god, this one wasn't in a suit; he thought he would feel sick if he saw one more gang member in fancy clothes. This one had a plain white shirt with a jacket, and he wore jeans. His tattoos were showing his slow, but steady progress through the cartel, up to the top. He might not be very experienced, but his orders were obeyed, and that was important.
"Why would a man come alone to the gang who he thinks wants to kill him?" Good, he wasn't stupid either. "Except you're drugged to the bone and probably have no idea how big the trouble you got yourself into is?" And perceptive.
"Those few weeks in jail were long," Eliot smiled and come closer, letting the men at the bar close behind his back. They had to know he was not a threat. For now, they were just interested in the unusual game. "And the first thing that I met when I was released, was a Mexican killer who tried to kill me. After that, a man needs a little relaxing, don't you think?"
"We are not trying to kill you. Cortez made a mistake and got too greedy, and he was busted – shit happens. We knew it had something with two dirty cops, a courier and the Irish, but as far as we are concerned, Cortez naively got himself, and a few good men, into trouble. The Mexicans are strong, and we are many, and that loss is nothing big. But, now that you are here, we may rethink your part in it."
"You're lying," Eliot simply said. "You framed me and my partner, and the Irish, maybe even Cortez – that ambush that the State Police made for us was not a lucky coincidence, you can trust me, been there, done that… that was a carefully arranged setup. You're the only one who could do it - and I can prove it."
The young man eyed him quizz- and in that moment everything crushed down, as the Hitter's hissed warning send his mind flipping back to the street where he turned on the silver phone. He was in the middle of a quick thought about how youth should not be underestimated, Hardison was the best example for that, and the Hitter's warning came too late.
Hardison. Silver phone. Tracking.
He could still see the Mexican in front of him, his lips were moving, but no sound could break through the noise and the fear in his head. If Hardison tracked the silver phone, and of course he did, that would lead them here. Here, into this slaughter, just in time for… Eliot stopped the Hitter who was starting to reach for the guns to kill them all, tried to think through the red fog that was engulfing him, and most of all, tried to remember what he was doing here. What was his last conclusion about the team? Would they try to find him or not? He had no idea, not any more, but the threat was present and near. Even the possibility of their coming…
He blinked a few times to clear his eyes, and found himself on the wrong end of several very nasty looking guns. Heckler & Koch, USP… he registered automatically. They even had two MP7A1s, enough to fight an entire army with. The nearest was a nice USP Compact, perfect for his pocket. His move for his guns was obviously very visible. One more mistake like this, and he would get killed before he even started anything.
"Can… can you repeat the last few sentences?" he asked the young man with a wry smile. "This shit is stronger than I thought. What's your name, by the way?"
Mexicans, Marco's Tavern, he reminded himself.
"I'm Alejandro." Great, that would be easy to remember, if he gave him number. Alejandro Two. "I just said that I'm very willing to listen to your proof. Please do continue. And don't try to reach for your guns anymore."
"I was reaching for this." He slowly moved his hand, and pulled out the car keys, throwing them to one of the men with a gun. "Hummer at the end of the street. Bring the man that's inside. Passenger seat."
Alejandro Two nodded, and the man left, taking three more men with him. Fear and wrath were pounding in his head, all the voices were silent, but he chose to sit on a bar stool instead of taking it and killing them all, one by one. Rule number two, he said to himself. He couldn't even lift the damn thing, much less swing it around, not if he wanted to live more than ten minutes after that.
"That man is your proof we are trying to kill you – even when I said we were not trying to do so - and what about the fact that you're here, and still alive?" asked Alejandro Two when the silence started to shift some of his men. He noticed their unease without looking directly at them, and his words calmed them instantly. This one was good.
Eliot just stared at him, admitting that the words made some sense, but he couldn't be sure what sense… he was still lost in counting the minutes that had passed, even thinking about turning the phone off – but he knew it was too late. Too fucking late, the damage was done. Unless they were not on his track… damn, the confusion was driving him crazy more than any drug. If he got out of here alive, the first thing he'd do would be to call Nate to see where the hell they were and what they were doing. If… he glanced at his watch once more just when the men came back, bringing Alejandro One with them. He started to listen to the sound of passing cars on the street.
The Mexicans' reactions were simultaneous – they all slowly got up, including their boss, and just stood there, staring at the newcomer.
Ok, if he didn't focus now, he might as well shoot himself and spare all of them the trouble. He held out his hand, and one of them handed him the car keys back.
"What the hell is this?!" Alejandro Two asked with clear rage in his voice.
"What? This is your killer." Eliot glanced at his former passenger, and smiled, reminding him of his words about his chances of survival. "And this is his gun." He showed him the gun at his belt. "He said he is a Mexican and that you sent him."
"You have no fucking idea who this man is, do you?"
Eliot listened to his voice, finding in him, besides the rage, a slight note of joy.
"You'll obviously claim he is not your killer." Eliot waved to Alejandro One. "Come here. You remember I told you to smile and keep quiet? Sit there with this fine young man, his name is also Alejandro." It seemed that the Chilean was still more scared of him than of the whole Mexican gang, because he came and did what he was told. Yet, he revealed some of his true self when he eyed his opponent and smiled at him – the younger man, too recently in charge of everything to be the real boss, flinched a little when Villacorta's notorious lieutenant entered his personal space.
The Mexicans were not paying any attention to him now, they were all staring at the table, and Eliot took out his silver phone without hiding it. The pictures he took while checking his contacts wouldn't be of much quality, but all the faces were clear.
"This man is Alejandro Rojas, Villacorta's lieutenant, and his second in command, you idiot. You brought us a man who has done more damage to us than anyone in Boston, who stopped more our businesses than you ever saw, and who killed-"
"Bull shit." Eliot raised his eyes from the phone just for a second. "Why would Villacorta send his right hand to kill one dirty cop? And after that, to blame it on the Mexicans? That is way under his league."
"Really?" The Mexican turned to the Chilean; yes, it would be wise to call them that, too many Alejandros would make the mess in his head even bigger. "Really, why would Villacorta do that?" Eliot sent just one warning glance to the Chilean, and he kept his mouth shut.
"Listen, all of this doesn't make any sense," Eliot said. "If you're not lying about this man, and he is really Chilean and not Mexican and yours, why did he try to kill me?"
"The Chileans do only what Villacorta orders them to do. What's your business with him?"
"Never met the guy before, never been involved in any of his business. What could Villacorta know about me, and my connection to you via Cortez and our job that night?" Eliot softly asked. "I barely know who the man is. You, on the other hand, you're rivals, always fighting… and it seems I'm just here to be used for something. I don't like being used. Especially when I can't guess what the real play is behind all of this. What is your business with him? Or, better yet, what is his business with you? What does he want?" he was hoping the Mexican was as smart as he thought he was. And paranoid, too. No man could be the head of a drug cartel if he wasn't paranoid, able to see all the possible and impossible threats that might occur. His words started a chain reaction in the Mexican's head, as he started thinking. Knowing his own paranoia, he could pretty much guess where this thinking was leading him.
"Maybe you were right when you said that that night was a setup for everybody," the Mexican said slowly. "And maybe we know, now, who designed all that. That even sounds like something Villacorta would do, he likes to deal with all his problems in simultaneous attacks."
"I can agree on that, we were pretty simultaneously taken down," Eliot sighed. "But the State Police did it, not another cartel."
"To get rid both of the Mexicans and Irish in one night, with one strike…" the Mexican continued thoughtfully. "That is something he would do. And he is powerful enough to arrange the ambush on the State Police."
"Wait… you're trying to say I'm in the middle of a cartel war, just because of one courier and a bag of drugs? Sorry, it's not my league, I'm out of here."
"Stay where you are, we are not finished yet!"
Oh, no, we are not, boy. Eliot sighed and put the phone away. "Look, this shit is too far gone… you're right, you have nothing to do with that, I'm sorry I wrongfully accused you and all that shit… they tried to kill me because I went out in wrong time, and that means that they are on the move. It's obvious now."
"What is obvious?"
"Him trying to kill me, someone irrelevant, shows that he has to deal with loose ends and witnesses now, because the next turn is beginning… and me contacting you is dangerous. If Villacorta tried, as you said, to get rid of the two largest gang bosses in one night, which he pretty much succeeded in doing, he won't leave the job undone. Especially after his dog comes home and tells him that you all know now. It will speed things up, and I don't want to be involved in this. Hell, I don't want to be near you, 'cause he showed us already that he aims for the bosses. You're next, boy. "
The Mexican just looked at him for a moment, then he pulled out his gun and put a bullet in the Chilean's head. The loud explosion sent painful sharp needles through Eliot's eyes, but he didn't blink. "There," the Mexican said after the echo of the shot cleared. "I wanted to do this for years. No dog will go to Villacorta and warn him. Satisfied?"
"You could say that." Eliot tilted his head and looked at the dead body on the floor. Well, he would have to reconsider his statement to Hardison, about the eyes popping out and its frequency. He didn't smile. The voices were silent.
He was a damn gang whisperer, and the night has just begun.
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"And what about the Irish?" Eliot asked when two men dragged Alejandro's body near the door, and started to clean the mess. The rest of the gang seemed proud of their young boss, he even got a few taps on the shoulder, but he looked like he was slowly becoming aware of the fact that he killed someone whose death Villacorta would revenge with rivers of blood.
"What about them? We are still in a war with them, and if Villacorta wants to annihilate the Irish, he can do that freely… not my business."
"They are still gathering at Old Joe?"
"They've never had Old Joe as a meeting place, they are always in Callahan's Night club. Why?"
"Because I think my only chances to survive this, is to join the strongest gang and stay close. You may have the most members, right behind the Chileans, but the Irish may prove to be smarter. They would certainly not take the fact the Chileans are cleaning up the city lightly."
"What's stopping me from blowing out your brains just now, for this?"
"For telling the truth?" Eliot glanced at the other members and Alejandro followed his eyes. Some of them nodded in approval. "Besides, if I chose to stay close to you, you might be grateful for another gun at your side. Villacorta put a death mark on some of the people who only helped to arrest one of his lieutenants, and you killed one of them. I've heard that Chileans shoot to kill, without questions… they were something military before they became a drug cartel."
"I know more about the Chileans than you'll ever know," Alejandro said coldly. "I know how they work. And I'm not forgetting that we have only your word on this. You brought us one of his lieutenants and said he tried to kill you and blame us for that – but I'll wait for the real Villacorta's move against us before I declare open war. For now, nobody knows we killed Rojas – and what Villacorta doesn't know, he can't avenge. If it happens, we will fight to the death… and then you'll see who is the strongest."
"Ah," Eliot said only that, listening to the sound of cars stopping in the street. "You're right, without the proof, and his move against you, my words are empty." He pulled out the silver phone and turned it off – it drew the Chileans here after him, and he remembered the time they needed to track the phone, find him, and send a party to kill him. It would be useful for the next time. After that, as the slamming of car doors made all heads to turn to the entrance, he took Alejandro's phone and called one of the cheap ones that he bought earlier.
"Damn, not now..." he murmured and stood up when it rang. "I have to take this call, it's important."
The Mexican just nodded, his attention on the door as well, and Eliot went deeper into the bar, behind the three tables, leaving Alejandro's phone with an open line on one of the chairs that were put behind the tables to make room while they dragged the body.
He barely had time to turn around when the door opened and three men came in. The first thing they saw was their lieutenant's body sprawled on the floor. The second thing they saw was nineteen Mexicans. With guns.
All hell broke loose in a second – the first two were taken down before they could draw their guns completely, the third managed to escape back to the street, but they were not alone. The Mexicans might have been ruthless street fighters, but the Chileans were professionals who knew how to fight and kill, and six of them stayed outside, pouring bullets through the windows and glass doors.
Eliot stayed until he counted how many Villacorta had sent after him – eight, in two cars, maybe two more if the drivers were still in the cars ready for a quick getaway. He was already near the back door, and he managed to pass through the rain of bullets that were systematically sprayed all over the bar, and reached the exit.
Flashes of light were still going in front of his eyes when he entered the dark alley, and he closed them to avoid all the distractions, and went through the dark path he remembered when coming.
The shooting was ceasing when he reached the Hummer. But the screams and cries were still coming through his phone.
He drove backwards, slowly, with his lights turned off, left the street and parked hundred meters down the next alley. The police would be there in minutes.
The screeching of the tires told him that the Chileans mainly survived this fight, and they were retreating to avoid the police as well. And the Mexicans… the cries, gunshots and yelling ceased slowly. The phone must have fallen from the chair at some point, because he could barely hear them speaking, just words with long pauses as they moved and dragged wounded. The words he did hear, though, were enough: gather… call… we can't let… take them to Juan… call all the… meet us in one hour… After that everything went quiet, and he carefully placed the silver phone on the passenger's seat.
He waited until three cars passed by him, leaving the street, gave them a solid hundred meters head start, then went after them, with his lights still turned off. It was important the Mexicans didn't notice him in this block, later in the traffic he wouldn't be so suspicious. Marco's Tavern now was compromised as a gathering place, and he needed to know where he could find them again. It was shame he couldn't follow the Chileans instead of the Mexicans, but they would recognize the chocolate Hummer the moment they noticed him.
The Mexicans drove slowly, trying to not attract any attention, and the police cars with rotating lights that they passed didn't stop them. The third car took a different turn at the next intersection and went the other way, but he followed the remaining two. He was lucky this time – the Mexicans took just a couple of more turns, and stopped near some industrial buildings, almost in a neighborhood. The complex seemed to be half abandoned, making it the perfect place for gang business.
He stopped the Hummer in the deepest shadow, and watched them park and enter one partially ruined building. Then everything went silent, except for the howling of police sirens in the distance.
Eliot turned the engine off, slowly raised both hands on the wheel, and rested his head on them. He didn't close his eyes, but the silence in his mind was welcomed. So, scared you as well, huh, voices? No one answered.
He just stared into the darkness, trying not to think, but it was futile to try. His hands were shaking so bad that he was scared he would turn on the auto horn. For one long second he was even thinking that everything that just happened was just a momentary drifting away, and when he turned his head, Alejandro would still be sitting on his seat… but even drugged, he couldn't deceive himself.
He killed him. And all of the rest. He had awoken a conflict that was sleeping, warned them about an incoming attack, and then drove after himself the attacking force. Many of them would die during the night, before dawn, and every single one would die because of him. Just as if he killed them with his own hands.
Doing all of this with the enemy's military units was a lot easier – units that were ready to engage in battle at any time, trained for that. Gangs and cartels were something completely different – their leaders had to collect them first, tell them to leave their dinners, dates, drinking buddies, gather somewhere, and then, go and fight. It wasn't enough just to start a war, he had to feed it like a camp fire – without enough logs to add, and maybe some fuel, it would die away all by itself. And he was already deadly tired.
He knew he closed his eyes at some point, because the flashes and red lights played in the darkness behind his eyelids, not letting him to rest even a minute. No rest could cure this exhaustion… and he had a lot of work to do. Places to see, people to kill.
It took an immense effort to open his eyes again, and to occupy his mind with something… anything. For starters, he counted the bullets from the Lady Killer's gun. Two at the doors when he entered the office, one in Parker, one in the ceiling of the tavern. He wasn't sure if he did or didn't shoot a speaker in that café with the Irish song, and he couldn't force himself to actually take the gun and check. It wasn't important, anyway.
That thought woke up the Hitter and he opened his eyes and straighten up. It would be an easy way out of this - nothing planned, just a miscalculation. Killed by mistake. Seriously? The Hitter shot a vile glare and took the gun, and counted the bullets. The Hitter despised weakness. That idiot was really annoying, almost as much as the Commander. However, Eliot knew better than to argue with that part of his brain.
Something important was connected to the number of Chileans that came after the silver phone, but it took him another two minutes to figure out what, exactly. There was a small chance that Villacorta launched his attack on the team thinking they were just five grifters that got lucky with San Gui, though his preparations showed different. Yet, his phone call from the last night was intended to wake up his curiosity, and to make him do his research, in case he haven't done it already. Villacorta had to know with whom he was fighting, precisely, it was of the utmost importance. If he still thought they are just a bunch of conmen, he wouldn't send eight, maybe ten killers to kill one man. Nope, he knew now who Eliot Spencer is. And was.
And not that fact, but that knowledge would bring him down.
He checked the watch, surprised when he saw how much time had already passed; he had lost too much time on waiting and driving, and no wonder he only had the strength to sit and stare. Moving away from here would be a great idea, he thought closing his eyes again - but instead of starting the engine he looked at the watch again, not knowing why… and saw that almost twenty minutes passed between those two checks that seemed almost at the same time.
Fuck. Not good, not good at all.
The loud ringing of his first cheap phone sent blue lights through his head again, and it hurt. Yep, no wonder, it was time for another dose of morphine, and a complete check of the pain levels… but the phone kept ringing and he looked at the screen. Sophie. Just then he remembered his decision to call Nate. Seriously, he should start to take notes, he only remembered a third of everything. Except of his plan and those steps, they were carved into his mind with all the details.
A couple of hours had passed without any reaction from them, and this call, at this time, meant something important, and important, in situations like this, often meant trouble. He had to answer this, but his throat clenched in worry.
"What?!"
"I don't know what were you thinking, Eliot Spencer," Sophie's voice was arctic, full of disgust. "But I can tell you, once and for all, that you crossed the line this time!"
For a moment he had no idea about what she was talking about, and he pressed his temple, trying to remember – what the hell he had done now; they couldn't know about this shooting yet; or they could; where the hell were they, anyway – but then he remembered what the last thing he left them with was. Parker, you idiot, the Hitter growled at him, pissed because he forgot something like that. Yes, that was it, he shot Parker. He remembered he told Hardison that they are the dead weight, and that he was leaving, having had enough of their shit… It was so distant now, in a past life.
"Didn't Hardison tell you to stay away from me in the future?" he growled, trying to hide that he only partially knew where he was, and what he had to say. "Parker is lucky I shot just her leg." Before this call, he had never heard this ice in Sophie's voice. God, she must have been pissed.
"How could you?!" Great, the ice was now mixed with acid. "First those things you told Hardison, and then, then, you shot the poor g-"
"How could I? Easier than I thought. Go away, Sophie."
That ice recollected him more than he thought it was possible; pissed Sophie was a better antidote for the morphine than that Naloxone that he found; for a moment he was completely bright and awake, and returned to the life in which they were still present as his, and not as 'where the hell are they now'. And it wasn't good, because his mind allowed all the fears and questions to emerge on the surface. No, he couldn't ask how Parker was, what damage the bullet had made, if she was all right… nothing. He couldn't ask, not anymore, how Sophie was doing, and the others-
"You sick bastard!" she hissed. "I swear, if you were near, if we are not leaving, I would, I would…" she stopped for a moment, taking a deep breath, and when she continued, her voice was deadly calm. "You know, our paths will cross again, Eliot, and then you'll know the real Sophie Deveraux. There are some things that are unforgivable, things you don't do to your team… and you'll learn that the hard way."
He remained silent when she disconnected herself, listening to the sound of the dead line, trying to impose some order on his mind. But, his mind was not the problem here, he wanted this to happen. This was logical and expected. No, he needed an order on his feelings; a task that seemed to be beyond his abilities right now. It was slightly different to only think about this happening, and to be hit with it – maybe he had overrated his ability to stay strong and just endure this shit a little. Well, too late to feel sorry now. Move on. He put away the phone and rubbed his forehead to ease the tension that had mounted behind his eyes. It didn't work.
He shouldn't have felt so empty. The same feeling he felt after he spoke with Hardison; utter exhaustion and emptiness. He wanted this to happen, he reminded himself once more. Hell, not only wanted, he was working hard for it. It was necessary, it would help them more than anything.
He allowed himself one more minute of emptiness and loss, and after that, just to try it, three seconds of self pity. He endured only two seconds, then stopped it immediately - it was an awful and strange feeling; he wasn't a man who could dwell on it more than a few seconds, no matter how hard he tried.
Then, he exhaled, feeling something he forgot, how it felt before all this shit – relief. He wouldn't need to worry about them anymore, about their possible moves, about their damn lives… They were leaving, finally. Now, he could concentrate on the Chileans, and not have to think about all the ways they could use to find him.
Yep, he was right. It hurt, deep to the bone. But at the same time, he felt an enormous burden lifted from his back.
He started the engine and drove away, using that feeling of relief to take him to the next step.
Using it, as well, to forget about the Hitter who started to aimlessly stagger all over his brain, staring into nothing, with a blank mind, without a purpose or a cause. Cut off the rest, disconnected. And left to die alone.